Elves, unlike other beings, are a rare sight outside larger settlements. Most humans, confined to their small villages, seldom encounter them. It wasn’t due to a lack of curiosity; rather, elves preferred solitude, tending to their own kind amidst the trees, deserts, and other secluded habitats. Their long lifespans made them indifferent to human affairs, leading them to dwell in serene isolation or wander the planes, free from human concerns.
As Azrael watched the child push through the golden sea of wheat, creating a path toward him, he hesitated. The other villagers, mostly elders and children, paused their work, their eyes filled with suspicion. Every move Azrael made, every breath, every blink, felt scrutinized by the wary villagers. They watched intently, waiting for the child to return, their mistrust evident. Azrael wondered how the child had identified him as an elf so quickly.
The child, dressed in a red shirt and black pants, his brown hair tousled and cheeks muddied from fieldwork, beamed up at Azrael. His eyes, bright and full of wonder, locked onto Azrael’s, his height only reaching Azrael’s waist. The boy’s excitement was palpable, a stark contrast to the cautious stares of the villagers.
“You’re an elf!” the child exclaimed, his smile wide and genuine. “Aren’t you?”
“I-…” Azrael started, momentarily at a loss for words. He was caught between his celestial identity and the mortal guise he now wore. “I a-”
The child’s enthusiasm cut through Azrael’s hesitation, drawing him back into the present. Azrael knelt down, bringing himself closer to the boy’s level, trying to appear less imposing.
“Well, not exactly an elf,” Azrael began, choosing his words carefully. “But I suppose I do look a bit like one, don’t I?”
The boy’s eyes widened further, his excitement undimmed. “You do! You have the ears and everything!” He turned to shout back at the villagers, “See, I told you!”
Azrael’s smile grew, charmed by the boy’s innocence and enthusiasm. He extended his hand gently, a gesture of goodwill. “My name is Azrael. What’s yours?”
The boy took Azrael’s hand with a firm grip, surprising for his small stature. “I’m Milo,” he replied proudly.
“You have a stro-” before Azrael could reply and properly greet Milo, a voice came running from the town, the fainted pants and gasps as it approached started Azrael for a moment as he slowly stood up, glancing to the direction he saw a freightened woman, standing just a few steps away from him, her hair was brown just like Milo’s and her hands callused from hardened work.
“Milo, come here, now!” she commanded, “He was not enough so now you come for my son too?!” she yelled out, as she watched Milo slowly approach, her gaze frantic as she awaited for him to grasp him into her arms, she was afraid of Azrael, did she see his original form somehow, did it falter? It couldn’t be, others would notice.
“I don’t intend to ta-”
“Silence!” she yelled out, “Don’t come near Milo, don’t come near me!” she yelled out as she grabbed Milo by the hand, and rushed into the village, leaving Azrael standing in the field dumbfounded and confused, as the other villagers continued their work.
Azrael stood alone in the golden sea of wheat, the sudden shift in atmosphere leaving him bewildered. The woman’s urgent voice, charged with fear and protectiveness, echoed in his mind as he watched her disappear into the village with Milo clutched tightly by her side. The tranquility of the morning was shattered, replaced by a palpable tension that hung heavily in the air like a thick fog.
From the fields emerged an old man, his face etched with the marks of time and toil. His steps were measured, his eyes piercing yet weary, as he approached Azrael. The village behind him murmured with the rustle of daily life, yet here, in this field, there was a quiet confrontation unfolding under the watchful gaze of the sun.
“You must forgive her,” the old man began, his voice a gravelly echo of decades spent whispering to the wind and the wheat. “She’s had her share of grief at the hands of…” His voice trailed off, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Azrael, searching perhaps for a sign of the trouble he feared.
“Experiences with my kind?” Azrael’s voice was soft, laced with confusion and a hint of sorrow. He had not anticipated such a reception, his celestial nature clashing with the harsh realities of human judgments and old wounds.
“Yes,” the old man sighed, the word carrying a weight of resigned acceptance. “Not all who wander into our village bring good intentions. She’s lost much, and her fear… it speaks more of past pains than of your doing.”
Azrael’s heart ached at the misunderstanding, his presence invoking memories of anguish rather than the peace he wished to offer. He glanced towards the village, the rustic homes basking in the gentle morning light, their simplicity a stark contrast to the complexity of human emotions swirling around him.
“I meant no harm,” he assured the old man, his tone earnest. “I am merely a traveler, seeking to understand, not to disturb.”
The old man studied Azrael for a moment longer, his eyes reflecting a lifetime of skepticism tempered by a glimmer of hope. “Perhaps,” he finally said, “but understanding is a path seldom walked without stirring the dust of the past.”
Azrael nodded, his respect for the elder growing with each word that bridged the gap between them. “May I at least know your name?” he asked, a gesture of goodwill to mend the frayed edges of their encounter.
The old man paused, considering the request, then nodded slightly. “Eldon,” he introduced himself, extending a hand hardened by the fields yet warm with an unspoken offer of truce.
“Azrael,” he responded, taking Eldon’s hand in his own. The handshake was firm, a tangible connection that seemed to anchor Azrael further into the fabric of this world, far removed from the celestial realms he once roamed.
Eldon’s laughter was tinged with disbelief, his voice echoing slightly in the open air. “An elf named after the God of Death, now that’s something I didn’t expect to hear today.”
Azrael managed a half-smile, the irony of his name not lost on him. “Yes, my parents certainly had an interesting sense of humor when choosing it.” His curiosity piqued, he ventured, “Is there perhaps a shrine dedicated to him in the village?”
The question seemed to hang in the air, casting a brief shadow over their light-hearted exchange. Eldon paused, his gaze shifting from the path ahead to Azrael, his expression hardening slightly. “You must be really far from where you come from,” he said slowly, the joviality fading from his voice. “No one here worships that ‘God.’” His tone was dismissive, even scornful, as he air-quoted the word ‘God.’ “Those that did have long since died out, driven away, or were destroyed by their own hubris.”
Azrael felt a twinge of regret for his question, realizing it might have touched a raw nerve. “I apologize, I hadn’t known,” he said, his voice low.
Eldon waved a hand dismissively, the tension easing from his shoulders as he chuckled again. “It’s fine, lad. I suppose there are still places that remember him. But here, he’s just a shadow of old tales, nothing more.” He motioned for Azrael to follow him into the village, adding, “Come on then, let’s introduce you properly, and forget about old gods and their stories.”
As they walked towards the village, Azrael mulled over Eldon’s words. The reality of how beliefs and deities could be forgotten or vilified in different lands fascinated him. It was a stark reminder of the diversity of thought and worship beyond the realms he knew so well. This interaction, though awkward, enriched his understanding of the complexities of mortal cultures and their ever-evolving relationships with the divine.
As they meandered through the quaint streets of Sava, the dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting an enchanting glow on the cobblestone path below. Azrael’s eyes were drawn to the rustic charm of the village, where every nook seemed to whisper secrets of ages past. The air was rich with the earthy scent of rain from a morning shower, mingling with the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting from an open window.
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“What brings you to Sava?” Eldon inquired, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them as they navigated the winding village roads.
“I was…” Azrael paused, choosing his words with care, “I am exploring, learning about different cultures,” he explained, his voice soft and tinged with a genuine curiosity that seemed to belie his otherworldly origin.
“I see,” Eldon nodded thoughtfully, his gaze sweeping over the simple yet vibrant life around them. “Well, Sava might not seem like much, but it’s home to us.”
“Who rules these lands?” Azrael’s question came as they passed a group of children playing by the water’s edge, their laughter echoing against the stone buildings.
“The village chief, Teter, is the official head, but he’s away currently. His son is acting in his stead. Above him, though, is Lord Friedrich Von Eisenwald, who governs this region,” Eldon explained, his tone carrying a hint of formality as he mentioned the higher authority.
Azrael absorbed this information quietly, nodding in acknowledgment as they continued their stroll. The village unfolded around them like a living tapestry, its streets narrow and labyrinthine, revealing a layout steeped in history. The cobblestone paths they walked sloped gently towards the river, offering picturesque views of the water shimmering beneath the sun. The houses they passed were quaint, with thatched roofs and walls often whitewashed and adorned with climbing vines and brightly colored shutters. Small, meticulously tended gardens fronted many of the homes, bursting with a variety of local flora.
“This village is beautiful,” Azrael remarked, genuinely impressed by the harmony of natural beauty and human settlement.
“It was built on the ruins of an ancient temple about forty years ago,” Eldon shared, his voice carrying a trace of nostalgia. “Back then, there were many more young people here.”
“What happened to them?” Azrael asked, his tone laced with concern as he noted the underlying sadness in Eldon’s words.
“War, famine… Bad harvests drove many away, and those that stayed often succumbed to the wars that swept through these lands,” Eldon replied, his expression somber.
“But the fields outside are lush and golden—” Azrael gestured toward the vibrant wheat fields that bordered the village.
“The famine ended five years ago, but the war… it still lingers,” Eldon concluded, his voice heavy with the weight of unresolved grief and lingering hope.
As they walked, the sounds of village life continued around them—soft conversations, the clatter of a cart, the splash of water. In this moment, Azrael felt a deep connection to Sava, a poignant reminder of the enduring spirit of its people. Here, in this small corner of the world, life went on, marked by both joy and sorrow, each leaving its imprint on the soul of the village.
As Azrael and Eldon continued their walk through the village, the air was filled with the whispers of the ancient trees that bordered the settlement, their leaves rustling as if sharing secrets long kept. The path underfoot was a mosaic of cobblestones, each worn smooth by the passage of countless villagers.
“What happened with the woman and Milo?” Azrael inquired, his voice gentle, treading carefully around the delicate subject as they passed under the shade of an aged oak.
Eldon paused, his footsteps halting as he gathered his thoughts. “It’s a painful story,” he began, his voice tinged with reluctance. “Jana, the woman you saw, lost her husband under tragic circumstances.”
“I understand,” Azrael nodded, signaling his respect for the sensitivity of the matter.
Eldon continued, his gaze fixed on a distant point as if visualizing the past. “Her husband was a troubled soul, given to drink and violence. It brought much grief to Jana and Milo.” His hand clenched unconsciously, the memory evoking a subtle agitation.
“One year, during the famine, two elves visited. They saw his abuse and offered a grim bargain to the village—to end the famine in exchange for his life.”
“A deal?” Azrael echoed, the concept resonating with his understanding of elven bargains, often steeped in deep magic and moral complexity.
“Yes,” Eldon nodded heavily. “The village agreed, desperate for relief. It was a decision born of dire need, not malice.”
“And did the elves return after that?” Azrael asked, his voice low, blending with the rustling leaves above.
“No,” Eldon shook his head, his eyes shadowed by the weight of that memory. “They promised never to return, having fulfilled their part.”
The path they walked was lined with small homes, each adorned with climbing ivy and the vibrant colors of blooming flowers, creating a stark contrast to the dark tale unfolding. “How has Jana been since then?” Azrael’s question was soft, almost lost amidst the symphony of the village life around them.
“Surviving, not living,” Eldon replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “She sees elves as harbingers of that dark time. It’s a fear deeply ingrained.”
The village square opened up before them, bustling with activity. The sounds of bartering, the laughter of children playing near the fountain, and the clatter of a blacksmith’s hammer provided a backdrop to their heavy conversation.
“That’s why she reacted the way she did to you,” Eldon explained as they navigated through the crowd. “To her, you are a reminder of that pain, a symbol of a past best forgotten.”
Azrael absorbed this, feeling the weight of unintended consequences. “I meant no harm,” he assured Eldon, his voice a solemn murmur.
“I believe you, lad,” Eldon said, a slight smile breaking through his somber demeanor as they paused by a stall selling fragrant herbs. “And maybe, in time, Jana will come to see that not all who wander into our lives bring turmoil.”
As they moved through the vibrant market, the scents of fresh baked bread and blooming flowers mingled in the air, crafting a tapestry of everyday life that felt worlds away from the shadows of their earlier conversation. Eldon’s hopeful words lingered in the air, suggesting a path forward not just for Jana, but for the village of Sava—a community continually weaving new stories into the fabric of its rich and storied tapestry.
“Are you hungry, lad?” Eldon inquired, shifting the conversation with a kind smile.
“Oh, no, thank you. I can’t repay you—” Azrael began, but Eldon cut him off with a gentle chuckle.
“I asked if you’re hungry, not if you want to buy food,” Eldon replied, moving toward the baker’s stall. The saleswoman eyed Azrael curiously over Eldon’s shoulder before handing over two small, warm loaves. Eldon returned, wobbling slightly, and offered one to Azrael.
Azrael accepted the loaf, a warm feeling spreading through his chest. “Thank you—”
“Don’t mention it. I’m old, but I don’t like seeing youngsters go without food.”
“Youngsters?” Azrael chuckled.
“You might be over a hundred, but you’re still young to me,” Eldon said with a twinkle in his eye.
Eldon pointed to a bench nestled beside the market, shaded by a large tree. The two sat down, Azrael holding the warm loaf in his hands while Eldon began to eat.
Between bites, Eldon spoke again. “If you’re interested in the history of the village,” he paused to swallow, “there’s a librarian here who knows much.”
“There’s a library?” Azrael asked, intrigued.
“Of course. It used to be an old ruin, but that girl took it and rebuilt it into a proper library,” Eldon chuckled. “She even has a statue of Azrael if you wish to pay respects—”
“Oh no, I don’t worship—” Azrael started, but Eldon waved him off.
“It’s fine, lad. I pass no judgment on which god you respect,” Eldon said, his voice softening. “Everyone has their own paths to walk and their own gods to honor.”
Azrael nodded, grateful for the old man’s understanding. He looked around the market square, the bustling life of the village unfolding before him, a tapestry of everyday magic and human resilience. The villagers moved with purpose, their lives woven into the fabric of this place, each one a thread in the grand design of the world.
“Tell me more about this librarian,” Azrael asked, his curiosity piqued.
“Ah, Lara. She’s a determined young woman,” Eldon said, a note of pride in his voice. “Took it upon herself to preserve the knowledge and history of our village. If anyone can help you understand our past, it’s her.”
Azrael felt a sense of purpose stir within him. “I think I’ll visit her,” he said, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Eldon nodded approvingly. “Good. She’ll be glad to have someone new to share her stories with.”
As they finished their meal, the sun cast long shadows across the square, and the scent of fresh bread and blooming flowers filled the air. Azrael felt a deep sense of belonging, as if this village, with its hidden histories and gentle kindness, was a place where he could find not just answers, but a connection to the world he was beginning to explore.
“Should I be aware of anything about Lara before I go?” Azrael asked, hoping to avoid another uneasy encounter like the one earlier.
Eldon hummed thoughtfully, eyes scanning the bustling market. “She can be quite…” He paused, searching for the right descriptor, “resolute.”
“Resolute?”
“Yes, she’s strong-willed. She might ask for your assistance, but she has a firm temperament, so try not to stir any trouble.”
“I’ll be mindful,” Azrael assured him.
“Oh, and she may offer to show you the ruins as well. They’re particularly striking this time of year.”
Azrael nodded, taking in Eldon’s advice. “Resolute and helpful, then,” he reflected, intrigued by the image of someone who harnessed such strength for the benefit of others.
Eldon’s eyes twinkled with a hint of pride. “Indeed, Lara is a cornerstone of our community. She’s spearheaded many projects here, especially the library. She doesn’t shy away from a challenge.”
Azrael’s interest piqued further. “And the ruins? They must be quite a sight.”
“They are,” Eldon confirmed warmly. “The ruins are partly why Lara chose to stay here. She’s also a historian—passionate about preserving our past. Those ruins aren’t just relics; they’re places of beauty and contemplation.”
The mention of ruins stirred something within Azrael, hinting at stories etched into stone and flora that now enveloped ancient walls. “I would like to see them,” he expressed, a note of anticipation lacing his voice.
“You should,” Eldon encouraged, rising from the bench. “Lara can tell you stories about those stones that might make you see them in a whole new light.”
“Thank you, Eldon, for all your guidance,” Azrael said, his gratitude sincere. Eldon’s openness and sharing of local knowledge had eased his way into this unfamiliar setting.
“Just remember,” Eldon added as they started towards the library, their steps echoing on the cobblestones, “Lara values respect and honesty above all. Show her that, and she’ll open up the history of Sava to you.”